The Descent

There  was  not  a  need  to  know.  No  more  so  than,  say,  the  need  to  unravel  a  good mystery  novel.  It  would  have  been  reason  enough  for  Branch,  if  he  were  alone.  He yearned  to get close and  wrestle  the  answer  out  of  that  water.  But  he  was  not  free  to obey  his  impulses.  He  had  men  under  his  command.  He  had  a  new  father  in  the backseat. As he was trained to do, Branch let his curiosity wither in obedience to duty. Abruptly  the grave  reached out to him.

A man reared  up from the water.

'Jesus,' Ramada hissed.

The  Apache  shied  with  Branch's  startle  reflex.  He  steadied  the  chopper  even  as  he watched the unearthly  sight.

'Echo Tango One?' The  corporal was shaken.

The  man had been dead for many months. To the waist,  what  was  left  of  him  slowly lifted  above  the  surface,  head  back,  wrists  wired  together.  For  a  moment  he  seemed to stare  up at the helicopter. At Branch himself.

Even  from  their  distance,  Branch  could  tell  a  story  about  the  man.  He  was  dressed like a  schoolteacher  or  an  accountant,  definitely  not  a  soldier.  The  baling  wire  around his wrists  they'd  seen on other prisoners from the Serbs' holding camp at Kalejsia. The bullet's exit  cavity  gaped prominently at the left rear  of his skull.

For   maybe   twenty   seconds   the   human   carrion   bobbed   in   place,   a   ridiculous mannequin.  Then  the  fabrication  twisted  to  one  side  and  dropped  heavily  onto  the bank of the grave  pit, half in, half out. It  was almost as  if  a  prop  were  being  discarded, its shock effect spent.

'Elias?' Ramada wondered in a whisper.

Branch did not respond. You  asked  for it, he was thinking to himself. You  got it.

Rule  Six  echoed.  I  will  permit  no  atrocity  to  occur  in  my  presence.  The  atrocity had already  occurred, the killing, the mass burial.  All  in  the  past  tense.  But  this  –  this desecration – was in his presence. His present presence.

'Ram?' he asked.

Ramada knew his meaning. 'Absolutely,' he answered.

And still Branch did not enter.  He was a careful man. There  were  a few last details.

'I need some clarification, Base,' he radioed. 'My  turbine breathes  air.  Can  it  breathe this nitrogen atmosphere?'

'Sorry, Echo Tango,' Jefferson said, 'I have  no information on that.'

Chambers came on the air,  excited.  'I  might  be  able  to  help  answer  that.  Just  a  sec, I'll consult one of our people.'

Your  people?  thought  Branch  with  annoyance.  Things  were  slipping  out  of  order. She had no place whatsoever  in this decision. A  minute  later  she  returned.  'You  might as  well  get  it  straight  from  the  horse's  mouth,  Elias.  This  is  Cox,  forensic  chemistry, Stanford.'

A  new   voice   came   on.  'Heard  your   question,'  the   Stanford   man  said.  'Will  an air-breather  breathe  your  adulterated  concentrate?'

'Something like that,' Branch said.

'Ah hmm,' Stanford said. 'I'm looking at the chemical spectrograph  downloaded  from the  Predator  drone  five  minutes  ago.  That's  as  close  to  current  as  we're  going  to  get. The  plume  is  showing  eighty-nine  percent  nitrogen.  Your  oxygen's  down  to  thirteen percent,  nowhere  close  to  normal.  Looks  like  your  hydrogen  quota  took  the  biggest hit. Big deal. So here's your  answer, okay?'

He paused. Branch said, 'We're all ears.' Stanford said, 'Yes.'

'Yes, what?' said Branch.

'Yes. You can go in. You don't want to breathe  this  mix,  but  your  turbine  can. Nema problema.'

The  universal  shrug  had  entered  Serbo-Croatian,  too.  'Tell  me  one  thing,'  Branch said. 'If there's  no problem, how come I don't want to breathe  this mix?'

'Because,' said the forensic chemist, 'that probably wouldn't be, ah, circumspect.'

'My meter's  running, Mr Cox,' Branch said. Fuck circumspect.

He could hear the Stanford hotshot swallow.  'Look,  don't  mistake  me,'  the  man  said.

'Nitrogen's  very  good  stuff.  Most  of  what  we  breathe  is  nitrogen.  Life  wouldn't  exist without  it.  Out   in  California,  people  pay   big  bucks   to  enhance  it.  Ever   hear   of blue-green  algae?  The  idea  is  to  bond  nitrogen  organically.  Supposed  to  make  your

memory  last forever.'

Branch stopped him. 'Is it safe?'

'I  wouldn't  land,  sir.  Don't  touch  down,  definitely.   I   mean  unless  you've   been immunized  against  cholera  and  all  the  hepatitises  and  probably  bubonic  plague.  The bio-hazard's  got  to  be  off  the  scale  down  there,  with  all  that  sepsis  in  the  water.  The whole helicopter would have  to be quarantined.'

'Bottom line,' Branch tried again, voice pinched tight. 'Will my  machine fly in there?'

'Bottom line,' the chemist finally summarized, 'yes.'

The  pit  of  fetid  water  curdled  beneath  them.  Bones  rocked  on  the  surface.  Bubbles breached like primordial boil. Like a thousand pairs of lungs exhaling. Telling tales. Branch decided.